Ne Me Quitte Pas
by Crystal Rose of Pollux
Summary: It's a Wonderful Life semi-inspired fic. Based on episode 145.  LeBeau had been so set on leaving Stalag 13 for good, not even Newkirk could change his mind.  But perhaps something else could...
1. Première Partie: L'histoire

_Author's Note: I wrote this as a blurb trilogy on LiveJournal sometime during the summer and forgot about it until recently, as the basic _It's a Wonderful Life_-esque plot has been done before in this fandom (not to mention others), albeit focusing on different characters. However, I was encouraged to post it here, so I've expanded the blurbs into short chapters for posting and made a few revisions, and I hope I've put a unique spin on this otherwise popular plot. This fic is also based on episode 145, "Cuisine a la Stalag 13," contains __**major spoilers**__ for it, and occurs sometime before the last scene in the tunnel.  
The final note is that the angels visiting LeBeau are meant to be familiar cameos from another fandom. In my timeline, I gave LeBeau very specific maternal grandparents—something I came up with on a whim and now cannot escape from. As always, the characters are not mine.  
_

* * *

LeBeau's feet ached as he finished up the dessert for General Wexler. With a moan, he sat down in the chair across from Schultz, who gleefully proceeded to sample it as food-taster. As he devoured the dessert, he took note of the Frenchman's exhausted form.

"What is the matter?" he asked, concerned.

"I am ready to faint," the corporal murmured.

"Is there anything I can do?" Schultz asked.

"If you could take that dessert to the dining room, I would appreciate it," LeBeau said, resting his head on the small table. "André went to take some food for _Colonel_ Hogan."

That wasn't the truth, of course; Carter was delivering the secret plans that Newkirk had pilfered from the general's briefcase so that Baker could take photographs of them. Newkirk was waiting with baited breath in the guest room for Carter to return with the papers so the Englishman could return them.

"_Ja_, I will take this to them," Schultz agreed. But then he frowned. "You will not escape again once my back is turned?"

LeBeau moaned something in response, leading Schultz to realize that he was serious. The big man left, and LeBeau wasn't even aware of it at first. He was so tired… so very tired. The past several days had been so draining… trying to teach the others to cook… making an attempted escape to England… being forced to lie low in the barn… Hogan convincing him to come back and cook in exchange for helping him rescue that lovely French Underground agent, Marie Bizet…

The Frenchman hoped the tiredness would soon pass; he would soon need to be on his way for another escape. This time, he was going to London to join the Free French at long last; perhaps he could even say hello to Kinch, who had arrived in London a few months ago…

His thoughts trailed off as he recalled Newkirk's words to him days earlier, as they had said goodbye. LeBeau had said goodbye to everyone else first; he knew that saying goodbye to Newkirk was going to be the most difficult part of his escape. His throat had tightened as he attempted to say goodbye to him, the both of them somehow maintaining wan smiles on their faces. He wasn't able to say anything, not that there really had been a need to. He did his best, however, struggling to address him; for once, he addressed him as Peter, rather than Pierre, as he usually did. But nothing else had come out of his mouth; lost for words, he hugged his friend and gave him the traditional French goodbye of a kiss on both cheeks. The Englishman didn't even object to being kissed, as he probably would have. And then Newkirk had been the one who had placed a hand on LeBeau's face and spoken those words:

"_We're really going to miss you… You know that…?_"

The Frenchman groaned. It was just like that crafty Englishman to try to convince him to go along with his ideas. Ever since he met him in 1940, it had been like that… Newkirk always managed to win him over with his silver tongue. He had come so close to persuading him to stay. Oh, the look in those eyes had been so convincing—if it hadn't been for the fact that LeBeau was mistaken in how he believed that Newkirk was independent, he almost would have believed it.

"Not this time," LeBeau murmured. "You and I have been through much, but now we must part ways. You will be alright, _mon pote_; you have always been able to look after yourself…" He gave a wan smile again. "You probably would have done just the same had I never even come here. You would have had one less person to worry about."

LeBeau sighed, knowing how much Newkirk secretly worried about him; he worried about everyone on the team, but moreso for the Frenchman and Carter. Well, they were the closest to him, so it was to be expected. Newkirk had put on facades to hide this fact, but after several adventures, LeBeau had figured out the truth. Carter eventually did, as well, but Newkirk saw it his duty to pretend that he wasn't worried when, in reality, he was sometimes kept awake by horrifying visions of their deaths that he hadn't been able to stop. Alone in the guest room, hiding under the bed, Newkirk was probably thinking about it now.

"I have sometimes wondered how long will it be until to worry yourself to illness…" LeBeau murmured. He sighed. "I am sorry that our friendship means that you must worry so. Perhaps it would have been better had I never been captured."

He sighed, reflecting on the years he had spent in Stalag 13. Although their first escape attempt together had ended in failure, he and Newkirk had forged an incredibly strong friendship, which led to many other failed escape attempts. And though LeBeau cursed Stalag 13 day after day, there had always been the part of him that reminded him how fortunate he was to have a friend in Peter Newkirk. This sentiment grew as, one by one, the other members of the future Unsung Heroes team arrived at Stalag 13—Kinch, Olsen, and Colonel Hogan himself, followed by Baker and, lastly, Carter.

But his bond with Newkirk had been special. They were completely different—he, LeBeau, was from a large, well-to-do family; before he died, his grandfather had amassed a small fortune which, alas, had vanished upon the fall of France, but the family was still doing quite well. Newkirk, on the other hand, was an almost-penniless performer from London's East End, with only his sister by his side. No one had expected the chef and the performer to discover that they were both, as it transpired, kindred spirits. Indeed, their first encounters with each other had been fights and arguments. Now, of course, neither corporal held any doubt that the other would lay down his very life for his comrade, if the situation called for it.

LeBeau sighed. Maybe Newkirk was being more truthful than he had first realized when he had talked about how much he would miss him.

_Take heart, Pierre. We will see each other again after the war_.

He ignored the voice in his head trying to add that it would be true—assuming that Hochstetter never did find the evidence to convict them, and also assuming that LeBeau would survive his time with the Free French.

He shut his eyes, hoping to regain some energy by resting. Some time had passed before he became aware of a familiar female voice calling to him—a voice he hadn't heard since so many years ago…the voice he always heard chasing after him with a mustard plaster whenever he came down with so much as a sniffle in his younger days…

"Louis…?"

"…_Grand-mère_?" he asked, baffled.

He lifted his head up from the table and gasped. A woman with familiar features was standing before him; it was his grandmother as he had remembered her in his younger years—tall with brunette hair and a kind, concerned face. The only things different about her were the dainty, almost silk-like wings protruding from her shoulders.

"_Vous ... Vous êtes un ange_?"

"_Oui—votre grand-père est aussi_," she replied.

LeBeau stared at his grandmother for a moment—having cast off her mortal form years ago, it was her eternal soul that now stood before him.

"_Why have you come here_?" he asked, still talking in their native tongue.

"_To talk_," she said. "_Louis, how much do you wish to go home?_"

"_I have been wanting to go home since I first arrived here_!" LeBeau answered. "_I have not seen Mother or Father or Aunt Sybille in years—nor my siblings and cousins! And Grandfather… I was not able to attend his funeral because I was fighting! I am only grateful that he heard of my promotion to corporal before he passed. Now General DaGaulle has ordered all Frenchmen to rally to him. I stayed here for so long, helping _Colonel_ Hogan. I must go. I am going tonight, once we are finished going over the information_."

"_And what of Pierre? And André?_" his grandmother asked.

"_They are being very understanding. André has accepted that I am going; Pierre is upset, but he will move on. He worries so much; I was thinking he would not be that way had I never come here_."

"_It is true; he would not_," said the lady angel. Her expression had suddenly sobered. "_Louis, there is something I must show you_."

"_What_?"

"_The past_," she said. "_That is why I am here. I am supposed to show you a different past from the one you know. Come._"

She took his hand and moved to take him through the kitchen door.

"_We cannot go this way! Klink and Wexler are_…" LeBeau trailed off; the place was completely empty. "_Where is everyone_?"

"_This is the past_," his grandmother said, pointing to the calendar on the wall. "_September, 1942_."

"_That is when André first came to Stalag 13_…" LeBeau recalled, as they walked outside and across the compound. "_Yes, look, there we are, in roll call; Olsen is waiting to_…" He trailed off. The space beside Newkirk, where he normally stood, was occupied by a stranger.

"_This is a past that has been changed_," the angel patiently explained. "_This is a past where you were not shot down over Salon. You are now in England, fighting for the Free French. Let us go nearer; we cannot be seen unless I will it_."

LeBeau gave a nod, but he was distracted as they approached. His friends looked… different, somehow. They looked pale and more irritable than usual, and Newkirk's expression seemed dark—far too dark than what suited him.

"_What is wrong with them_?" he asked.

"_They are hungry—starving, living off of rations and whatever food they can smuggle into the place. If only they had a chef, they would be able to be healthier and happier perhaps be more efficient_…"

LeBeau winced at his grandmother's words, and continued to watch as things began to play out the way he remembered—Olsen switching places with Carter, Wagner coming in as a spy, Carter accidentally letting Wagner know about the operation… but something different happened when the others found out. The way LeBeau remembered it, Newkirk had taken the blame for not warning Carter about Wagner. But now Newkirk was angrily yelling at Carter for messing up.

"What do you mean you didn't 'ear me tell you about that ruddy spy?" Newkirk roared, shoving the stunned American against the wall. "Ain't your ears working?" The Englishman cursed him, aiming a punch that was halted in mid-swing by Hogan and Kinch.

"Pierre, stop! What are you doing to André?" LeBeau cried, as Carter retreated as far as he could go, clearly terrified. "_Grandmother, I… I do not understand… What has happened to Pierre_?"

"_Two lonely years in this place hardened his heart. His escape attempts still failed, and his cynicism kept people away in droves. You see, Louis, it is as you said. He doesn't worry for anyone anymore, except, perhaps, his sister. And even his letters to her have gotten infrequent and colder_."

"_What about the operation? Did that fall apart as well_?"

"_It depends on what you mean by 'fall apart'_…" a new voice said—another voice that LeBeau recognized.

"_Grandfather_!" he exclaimed, as the winged form of the former family patriarch appeared as well.

The female angel greeted her husband warmly.

"_I will show him the present_," the male angel said, softly.

"_Yes, you must_," she said, kissing him. "_I will be waiting for you in the real world_."

She then said her goodbyes to her grandson and vanished.

The corporal gave a slight shudder. It was so bittersweet to see his departed loved ones again, and he was grateful for the opportunity. But he was nervous—scared, even—of what they were going to show him next.


	2. Deuxième Partie: Same as it Never Was

LeBeau turned to his grandfather, taking in his broad, pearlescent wings. It was a much younger form of his grandfather—the strong, muscular man whom LeBeau recalled from his younger years.

"_There is much to talk about, Louis_," his grandfather said.

"_Yes; so much has happened_," LeBeau agreed. "_I am sorry that I was not able to stop our beloved France from falling_."

"_And that is why you hope to help free her now_?" the angel asked.

"_I hope to_," LeBeau admitted, but he didn't sound as sure as before. "_I thought about it for a long time once Marie told me about the general's orders. And it gave me time to think about my situation. The others kept on telling me that I was already fighting for France here, but…_" He shook his head. "_Tell me, Grandfather—how does cooking enough food for the Germans to stuff their faces help our France?_"

He sighed, upset with himself.

"_I know I should not complain. At least I am allowed to go on missions outside of the camp; poor Kinch and Baker usually have to stay by the radio. But it pains me to have give comfort and good food to the enemy—food that I want to give to our soldiers and our countrymen! And the food I make for my friends is rarely appreciated. I know Grandmother showed me how hungry they were without me, but it is difficult to keep giving them good food when I receive complaints! Pierre is the worst when it comes to that_—'Cor blimey, Louis, can't you make English food for once?'"

He had said the last part in an honest but terrible attempt at a Cockney accent. His grandfather listened to the rant patiently; the angel knew that seeing the visions of the past had impacted the corporal, and his next words confirmed it.

"_And yet, I know that Pierre honestly wants me to stay. I never imagined that my not being there would make him snap at André like that. But, other than that and filling German stomachs, I do not do anything special. The colonel leads everyone, Pierre does all the thieving, André makes our weapons, and Kinch and now Baker handle all of the transmissions. The Leader, the Thief, the Munitions Expert, and the Radiomen… Years from now, everyone will hear of them and know the important role they play. Then they will hear of me—the Chef! Chefs do not win wars; they battle unruly ingredients, not enemy soldiers! It is as I said to Baker—years from now, when I have a child, I will have no war stories to tell!_"

LeBeau took a deep breath, glad to finally get it off of his chest.

"_I am sorry, Grandfather; I know you came here to show me something, but other than a moody Pierre, I do not see what else will be different_."

"_You might very well be surprised, then_. _Come, Louis_," the angel said, leading him towards the bunk bed trapdoor.

LeBeau hesitated for a moment, but followed his grandfather's spirit down into the tunnels. He shuddered, nervously trembling as he looked around.

"_What… what is happening to me_?" LeBeau asked, as he started to hyperventilate. "_I have not had a reaction to being in the tunnels since_…"

"…_Since you started digging them_," his grandfather finished. "_In this new present, you have not had the exposure to the tunnels. Nor were you here to go on those missions where you were forced to hide in small spaces. You were not able to overcome your claustrophobia_."

The corporal's head was spinning.

"_Grandfather, I must go back up_…" he began, but trailed off as he heard a familiar voice up ahead. "Pierre?"

He headed forward, trying to ignore the feeling of the tunnel walls closing in on him, heading to the source of the voice. He gaped as he arrived to see a very drunk Newkirk angrily berating Carter for another recent mistake. They were both noticeably thin from hunger.

"You forgot to set the ruddy timer again! 'ow do you keep doing these things?" he slurred, angrily. "Blimey, you should've gone off when we got you out of 'ere. Why'd you 'ave to come back and be a bloomin' 'eadache for all of us!"

"Sometimes I wonder why I did come back," the sergeant retorted, looking more hurt than angry. "But Colonel Hogan was saying that he needed a demolitions expert, and I was halfway back when I decided, 'Hey, that could be me—'"

"What kind of 'expert' forgets to set the timer—more than once!" Newkirk roared. "I knew you were nothing but trouble the minute you showed up 'ere and started nattering!"

"You know, maybe if you'd just lay off the scotch for a little bit, you'd pay more attention to the good things I've been doing," Carter said.

Newkirk's eyes flared, and he aimed to throw the bottle at him. Carter yelped and dashed out of the tunnel before he could.

LeBeau just stood, shaking his head slowly as Carter fled past him.

"_This… this isn't right_," he said to his grandfather. "_They are supposed to be friends; Pierre acts as though he cannot stand André_."

"_He cannot_," the angel answered. "_A closed heart knows no compassion; you will meet someone later who can tell you that firsthand_."

LeBeau just gave half a nod as he watched Newkirk pour himself another drink.

"_Drunk_…" he murmured, more to himself than his grandfather. "_He has become a drunk. He used to tell me about how his father was a drunk, and how he hated it, and now… he is just like his father…_"

"Newkirk!" Hogan's voice echoed from down the tunnel. He walked right by the two Frenchmen without even seeing them, crossing to the Englishman. "Newkirk, you should be ashamed of yourself."

"Carter 'ad it coming, Sir," the corporal replied, still slurring his words together. "That ruddy fool should be more careful with what 'e's doing, anyway; it's a miracle that we 'aven't been sent to Kingdom Come, the way 'e carries on!"

"That's no reason to grind his morale into the ground," Hogan countered. "Anyway, we need to come up with a different way to take out those baby tanks; they're plowing through the area thanks to that synthetic fuel."

"_Baby tanks and synthetic fuel_?" LeBeau asked. "_It cannot be_…"

"…_The same baby tank you drove in the real world_," his grandfather finished. "_And the fuel, of course, is the research that Professor DuBois was working on—research that was later continued in that research lab that you had snuck into after DuBois died_."

"_Died? But… DuBois escaped_!" LeBeau protested.

"_Only because you covered the escape by impersonating him_," the angel reminded him. "_Here, he was recaptured and put to death. His daughter suffered the same fate_."

A sudden chill crossed LeBeau's heart as he forced himself to listen to Newkirk and Hogan's conversation.

"I say it's 'opeless," Newkirk insisted, still drunk. "We can't do anything to stop those ruddy tanks. We couldn't even stop Burkhalter from stealing that painting—that _Boy With the Flute_, or whatever that was…"

LeBeau's jaw dropped. Not the painting he had struggled to save!

"_Fife_," Hogan corrected him. He sighed, staring at nothing in particular. "If only Tiger were still here… she'd have come up with something." He clenched a fist. "I wish I'd been able to save her."

Newkirk mumbled something.

"_Tiger is dead, too_?" LeBeau asked, horrified.

"_She was executed by Colonel Backsheider in Paris after she refused to answer his questions_," his grandfather said. "_Marya wasn't as willing to help Hogan without you there to convince her; without her help, Mademoiselle Monet's fate was sealed_."

LeBeau shut his eyes, Tiger's young and beautiful image coming to him. Tiger… gone…

"_Grandfather, please tell me that there are no others dead on account of my absence_," he pleaded.

"_Not dead_," the angel assured him. "_But do you remember that young Dutch lady who had captured your eye_?"

"_Not Wilhelmina_…!" the chef exclaimed.

"_She is being held by Major Hochstetter_."

LeBeau cursed the major, angrily. Now even more upset by this horrible reality, he focused back on Newkirk and Hogan.

"You'd better sober up," the colonel was saying to Newkirk. "We're going to have to go out tonight, most likely."

Newkirk responded with a grunt. Hogan didn't bother with trying to get him to see the light or even take the scotch away from him; he headed back to the barracks, a faraway look in his eyes as his thoughts turned to Tiger. Not being able to save her had been a deep blow for him on more than one level.

LeBeau watched him leave, but then walked over to where Newkirk was sprawled over the table.

"_Do you wish to speak to him, Louis_?" asked his grandfather.

"_Yes_," the corporal replied.

The angel snapped his fingers, allowing himself and his grandson to be visible to those in this reality. But Newkirk was so drunk, he didn't even notice the other corporal standing beside him.

"Pierre?" LeBeau asked, softly. He gently tapped the Englishman on the shoulder.

Newkirk suddenly seized LeBeau's wrist as a reflex.

"Who are you?" he demanded, earning a shocked and hurt looked from LeBeau.

"Pierre, it is me—Louis!" The Frenchman was horrified by the dark, cold look in the Englishman's eyes; they completely lacked the warmth and the mischievous twinkle that LeBeau had been so used to seeing.

"I don't know any Louis," Newkirk spat, shoving him aside and turning back to the scotch bottle. "I don't even know 'ow you got down into the tunnel; you'd better 'ave gotten the Guv'nor's permission."

"Pierre, look at me, please…" LeBeau pleaded. "You always call me your little mate."

Newkirk let out a derisive chuckled.

"You're barmy, you are," he said, not even looking at him as he spoke; he poured himself yet another drink. "I don't 'ave anyone I'd call a mate, and I certainly don't know you."

"What about André? You and he have always been close… All three of us have been…"

"Leave off, whoever you are," Newkirk ordered, raising the glass to his lips.

"Stop!" LeBeau gasped, knocking the glass out of his hand. "Pierre, you know better than to drink so much!" And it was most unlike him; Newkirk did enjoy the odd drink, but LeBeau had never seen him this drunk before. And it horrified him to see it now.

But knocking the glass out of his hand had been the wrong thing to do; Newkirk got to his feet. An English fist connected with a French chin.

LeBeau cried out, retreating. How ironic that their first meeting in the real world had also included him receiving a punch from Newkirk, but the situation had been so different. The Frenchman had to admit to himself that he had picked the fight with him then. Now, however, Newkirk had hit him in a drunken rage, and it was the circumstances that hurt more than the strike itself.

"Pierre, please—!" LeBeau cried, yelping as Newkirk aimed another punch at him now.

The angel intervened, using his arm to block the Englishman's second blow. Newkirk took one look at the winged man and mumbled something to himself, sitting back down and reaching for the scotch bottle again.

"_Louis, we must go_," his grandfather said.

"_But_…"

The corporal trailed off as his grandfather placed his hand on his shoulder and led him away. But he did not take his eyes off of Newkirk until the Englishman was out of his line of vision.

"_Is… is Pierre always this drunk in this world_?" LeBeau asked.

"_Most of the time_," his grandfather admitted. "_Oddly enough, it doesn't seem to harm his ability to perform his duties on missions. But, regardless_…"

"…_He should not be this way_," LeBeau finished.

"_It is as I said earlier_," the angel added. "_The organization did not fall apart… but it was never really together to begin with_."

"_But this isn't real_," LeBeau said, more for the benefit of reminding himself. "_I did come to Stalag 13, and Pierre became my closest friend. And Pierre did not become this_…" He gestured in vain to the direction where they had come from. "_If I leave Stalag 13 now, after being here for so long, he would still be the kind and caring Pierre he is in reality_."

"_But for how long_…?" a new voice asked.

LeBeau gaped as a man he did not recognize appeared. He was another angel, but his wings were shiny black, and he was purposefully keeping half of his face hidden from view.

LeBeau noticed that his grandfather gave a somewhat cool look towards the new arrival.

"_I trust you will use some tact when explaining what you have to say_?" his grandfather asked the third angel. "_You are not known for your subtlety_."

The dark-winged angel grunted in response. LeBeau's grandfather took it as a "yes."

"_Louis, I must go now_," he said. "_He will tell you the rest of what you need to hear_."

LeBeau looked uneasy as he nodded and said goodbye to his grandfather as he vanished from sight. It wasn't just because LeBeau was somewhat put off by this newly-arrived, strange angel; he had a feeling that what the angel had to say was not at all what he wanted to hear.

* * *

_Notes: Episodes referred to in this chapter are "Tanks for the Memories," "The Scientist," "Art for Hogan's Sake," "A Tiger Hunt in Paris," and "LeBeau and the Little Old Lady."_


	3. Troisième Partie: Dominoes of Woe

LeBeau glanced at the strange angel.

"_I do not believe I know you, Monsieur_," he said, unable to place the man.

"_You were but a child when you saw me; considering the events of that day, I doubt you will remember_," the strange angel replied. "_But I am not here to discuss the past with you; I am here to discuss the future_."

LeBeau followed him to the barracks, where Newkirk and Carter were having yet another argument. Well, Newkirk was the one talking; Carter was silently putting up with everything the still-drunk Englishman was yelling at him.

"_How far into the future are we_?" LeBeau asked.

"_A few months_," the angel replied. "_Your friend has gotten worse, as you can see_."

LeBeau looked to the two again, and cried out as he saw Newkirk pull a knife from his pocket—his "pencil sharpener," as he always called it. But LeBeau was more horrified to see Newkirk use the pencil sharpener to threaten Carter.

"Stop! STOP!" LeBeau cried, trying to take the pencil sharpener from Newkirk, but his hand passed right through him.

"Newkirk!" Hogan's voice bellowed across the barracks.

Newkirk pocketed the knife, facing his commanding officer with an unashamed expression.

"Newkirk, I've had it up to here with you," Hogan said, raising his hand to his forehead. "Carter, are you okay?"

"Yeah… Yeah, I'm fine," the sergeant said, with a shudder.

Hogan gave a nod and turned back to Newkirk.

"We made you a part of this team because we needed you," he said. "But if you're going to keep belittling Carter, you're not going to have a place here anymore."

"Good, then send me 'ome," Newkirk said. "I've been waiting to get out of 'ere ever since I got 'ere."

Hogan gave him a long stare.

"Alright, so I bluffed," he admitted. "There still isn't anyone who can pick a lock or crack a safe like you, but that doesn't excuse your behavior towards Carter."

Newkirk gave him a dark smirk that didn't suit him. He shrugged as he sat back at the table, beginning to start a game of solitaire.

LeBeau stared at the scene, but before he could say anything, he was stunned to see Kinch enter the barracks, a panicked expression on his face.

"_I thought Kinch left for London_," LeBeau said to the strange angel. "_How is he back here_?"

"_Your colonel was desperate to keep the team together; having Kinchloe come back was a vain attempt to keep Newkirk in line_," said the angel. "_It was all for naught. Wounds inflicted by the pain of solitude do not heal, and a life of loneliness is the only option for one who has spent so long in it. I speak from experience. But worry now about what Kinchloe has to say_."

Hogan turned to his reinstated second-in-command.

"Sir, you need to get into the tunnel right away," Kinch said. "All of us; we don't have time! Hochstetter is on his way here right this second with a squad of goons!"

Hogan's eyes narrowed.

"All of you, go!" he ordered. "I'll cover the retreat."

"But, Sir…!" Baker said.

"GO!" Hogan yelled.

Newkirk was already into the tunnel before Hogan even had given the order to go; the Newkirk that LeBeau remembered would have been covering the retreat along with the colonel. This Newkirk was only out to save his own skin and nothing more.

The barracks were empty, except for Hogan, by the time that Hochstetter arrived; there had been no time for the colonel to escape. Realizing this, he closed the bunk bed trapdoor after his men and crossed towards his office as Hochstetter kicked the door open.

"Here is where it ends, Colonel Hogan," Hochstetter sneered. Gretel was by his side; in this reality, Newkirk had not trusted the woman due to his cold nature. But LeBeau realized that he would rather have seen the trusting Newkirk again than to have him like this and never once attracted to Gretel.

"Really, Major?" Hogan asked, the confidence gone from his voice.

"Fraulein Wilhelmina finally talked," Hochstetter said. "And, at last, the moment I have been waiting for has come."

"Major Hochstetter, this must be some sort of mistake!" Klink was saying, as Hochstetter gleefully snapped the handcuffs over Hogan's wrists. "Colonel Hogan couldn't possibly be involved—"

"Silence, Klink," Hochstetter snarled. "Perhaps you have not noticed, but the barracks are completely empty! There goes your perfect record!"

"Whaaaaa…?" Klink moaned, finally noticing the empty room. "SCHULTZ!"

"_Herr Kommandant_…" the big man stammered. "I… I assure you I know nothing about this! The men were all here only fifteen minutes ago!"

"You two will be brought in for questioning later," Hochstetter said, dully. "But I wish to conduct the interrogation of Colonel Hogan as soon as possible. And I am sure I will get the location of his men from him."

"Over my dead body," the colonel retorted. "And I know you'll hold me to that."

"Indeed," Hochstetter replied, through gritted teeth. "Now, get moving!"

Two of Hochstetter's guards forced Hogan out.

"_Colonel_!" LeBeau cried, running after them. "_COLONEL_!"

The strange angel stopped the corporal by gripping his shoulder.

"_You can do nothing for him_," he said. "_Major Hochstetter will keep him alive until he is convinced he cannot extract any information from him. As for Klink and Schultz… they will be sent to the Eastern Front._"

"_Will any of them survive_?"

"_No_," the angel responded, truthfully. "_Your colonel will be given posthumous honors when Carter, Kinchloe, and Baker return to the United States and tell their stories_."

"_They survive, then_," LeBeau whispered, a spark of relief forming in his heart.

"_They survive_," he agreed. "_But they are among the few lucky ones. Come; there is still one more thing you must see_."

The angel led LeBeau through the tunnel and through the outside. The escaped prisoners were splitting up in groups of two and three, desperate to make contact with the Underground. But Hochstetter's men were everywhere. LeBeau was still running when he noticed a figure lying bleeding upon the ground, his face pale.

"Olsen!" the Frenchman gasped, swaying as the moonlight illuminated the sergeant's form. He shut his eyes to prevent himself from fainting at the sight of the blood. "_Not him, as well!_"

"_Keep going_," the angel ordered, pushing him along.

LeBeau did as he was told, gasping as he heard Newkirk angrily yelling at Carter again.

"The Guv'nor ain't 'ere to protect you," Newkirk slurred. "And I ain't letting you be the reason I get done in!"

"Newkirk, please!" Carter yelped. "We… we're on the same side! We should work together! I don't get it—why have you always had such a grudge against me!"

"Because you're a top-class idiot," Newkirk snarled.

It was so wrong to see Carter look so hurt and scared at Newkirk when LeBeau knew that they were supposed to be such great friends.

"You know…" Carter was saying. "If you didn't drink so much and walled yourself off… you could've been a really great guy."

Newkirk responded with a snarl and ran off into the woods. Carter knelt to the forest floor for a moment, just staring at nothing.

"_He looks so scared and alone_," LeBeau said.

"_He is_," the angel replied. "_Would you like to talk to him_?"

LeBeau nodded, and walked over to Carter as the angel snapped is fingers.

"André?" he asked, softly.

Carter gave a start, but recognized that the speaker was a friendly face.

"Oh… hey," he said, softly. "Um… do I know you?"

"You did once," LeBeau said. "But never mind that; how are you, _mon ami_?"

"Well… as good as I can be, I guess," Carter replied. He shuddered as he looked around. "I don't know what happened. We started out strong—this operation, I mean. It looked so promising; that's why I came back to join it. But we couldn't keep going; it's like something was missing, and we couldn't go on without it."

LeBeau swallowed hard. This version of Carter didn't know exactly what was missing, but LeBeau certainly did.

"I think Newkirk—that guy who was just here— sensed that, too, from the beginning," Carter went on. "I wanted to believe that he was a good person deep down, but I guess the despair of it made him seal himself off to everyone. It's sad…"

LeBeau felt the lump form in his throat, and he nodded. But he suddenly gave a start, as did Carter, as he heard Newkirk's angry yelling from up ahead.

"Pierre!" he cried.

"You know Newkirk?" Carter asked, baffled.

LeBeau didn't reply; he tore off in the direction of the yelling. The angel stayed where he was, Carter giving a yelp as the moonlight fell upon the strange angel's disfigured face. The sergeant blinked, unsure of what to make of it all, but quickly got his bearings and fled into the night.

LeBeau arrived in time to see Newkirk running from one of Hochstetter's men with his pencil sharpener in his hand; he had just killed another, it seemed—the body of another one of the major's men was lying nearby. The still-living goon sneered at him, turned his weapon on the Englishman, and fired at him as he retreated. He didn't even wait to see him fall; the goon walked off in search of his next prey.

LeBeau watched in horror as Newkirk hit the ground.

"Pierre! _Mon pote_, please wake up!" he pleaded, kneeling before the wounded Englishman. LeBeau kept his eyes shut until he turned him over to avoid looking at the bleeding wound on his back.

"You again…?" Newkirk asked, feebly. "You were there in the tunnel that day… You were that ruddy idiot who knocked the glass from me 'and…" He flinched, his body stricken with the pain from his wound. "What… what are you doing 'ere? What do you want from me?"

"Your forgiveness, Pierre," LeBeau whispered. "Had I only known that my absence would cause all of this, I would never have wished this to happen. Everything is wrong—all wrong! You were supposed to live—all of you who died!"

"What are you… nattering about…?" Newkirk gasped, in pain. He forced his eyes open, puzzled. "Why do you… act like you _care_…?"

LeBeau gripped the Englishman's wrist.

"Because I do care for you, Pierre," he said. "A lot of people do… where I come from."

Newkirk stared at him in disbelief. It didn't seem possible, and yet this man didn't seem to be lying; his distress and sorrow were both genuine.

"Who… who did you say you were?" he asked, his voice fading.

"Louis," he responded. "And I wish you could remember…"

He blinked back the tears in his eyes, but Newkirk saw them. Here was a man crying over him—a man who claimed to know him, but whom he couldn't recall. It sounded so unbelievable, and yet… Newkirk believed it.

"Blimey…" he murmured. "If only…"

LeBeau never found out what he was planning to say; his eyes closed as he trailed off, his pencil sharpener slipping from his hand.

"Pierre?" LeBeau whispered.

He felt the Englishman's neck for a pulse, but found nothing. Once more, the Frenchman kissed the Englishman on both cheeks as a way of saying goodbye.

"How you have suffered," LeBeau whispered, not bothering to wipe the silent tears escaping from his eyes. "Be free now, _mon frère_. And take heart that this fate will not befall your real-world counterpart. I will not allow it."

He cradled the still form in his arms and shut his eyes.

_I have had enough!_ he mentally cried. _Please, do not make me lose him like this! Please! He does not deserve to die all alone like this!_

"Louis…?" the Englishman's voice rang out, calling to him, softly.

_And, still, I hear his voice_… LeBeau thought. _Oh, Pierre_…

"Louis! Wake up, little mate! Just 'ow are you going to escape if you can't keep your eyes open?"

LeBeau opened his eyes, gasping. He was back at the table in the kitchen of Klink's quarters. Turning his head to the window, he was both relieved and overjoyed to see Newkirk standing there with his usual cheeky grin.

"A dream…?" LeBeau asked, staring at nothing in particular. "I was asleep all this time?"

"You ain't no sleeping beauty, that's for certain…" the Englishman commented, squeezing in through the window. "Come on, then; up you get." He blinked. "Louis, you've got feathers all over you…"

"_Quoi_?" the Frenchman asked, baffled.

He froze as he noticed three feathers stuck to his red sweater. Two of them were white; the last one was black. Gently, the corporal removed the feathers and stared as he held them in his hand.

_Grand-père… Grand-mère_… he realized. He shut his eyes briefly once again. _Merci_.

"Louis, we've got to get to the Guv'nor," Newkirk reminded him, tapping him on the shoulder. "Baker's got the pictures developed, and 'e wants us all there to 'ave a look. Not to mention, you need to be out of 'ere before Klink chucks you in the cooler…"

LeBeau noticed how the Englishman's cheery tone had faltered as he spoke the last few words. Yes, this was the Newkirk he knew so well. That thought alone was comforting as he followed the Englishman back into the tunnels (carefully keeping the feathers in his pocket)—and this time, LeBeau did not react to the enclosed space.

He was only partly listening to Hogan's commentary about the pictures; part of him was watching out of the corner of his eye as Carter whispered something to Newkirk about Klink being desperate for a promotion, prompting the Englishman to roll his eyes in amusement and pull Carter's hat over his eyes in jest. Carter just laughed, setting his hat back as LeBeau smiled to himself. This was how it should be.

It was only when Hogan instructed Baker to call for a plane so that the Frenchman could take the film back to London that the corporal spoke up and announced his decision to stay after all.

LeBeau saw the flash of joy and hope in Newkirk's eyes; the Englishman immediately tried to cover it up with a typical "Oh, well, if that's what you really want…" comment, but LeBeau knew better than to believe that for even a second.

_You are going to survive this war, mon frère_, he silently vowed. _And I will be here to see it happen_.

He exchanged a brief glance with the Englishman as he drew an arm around him, and LeBeau knew that Newkirk was thinking the exact same thing in the reverse.

**Epilogue**

Shortly after this incident, after Hogan had successfully conned Klink into letting LeBeau out of the cooler for the earlier escape attempt, life in Stalag 13 returned to normal. LeBeau was soon at his post beside the stove, cooking equipment in hand. It did not escape Newkirk as to how unflinchingly LeBeau had returned to the position he seemed to have been so tired of, and the Englishman's curiosity was piqued.

He walked over to the stove, pausing to recoil at the strong smell coming from the pot that the Frenchman was stirring.

"Oh, Cor, what are we in for tonight?" he asked, unable to stop himself.

LeBeau rolled his eyes.

"_Potée Lorraine_," he said. He held the ladle out to him. "I know this is a mistake to ask you, but would you like to taste it?"

Newkirk regarded the soup with a suspicious expression. The Englishman sighed, reminding himself of how LeBeau had almost left, and he shut his eyes and took a sip. Well, he could drink it without gagging, but he could tell that beads of sweat were popping out onto his forehead.

"Well… I can say, with all 'onesty, that I've never tasted anything like it before," he said. _Well, actually, once you get past the first sip, it ain't that bad_…

LeBeau knew that he was deliberately trying not to insult him.

"You can be as brutal as you like, Pierre; I will not leave again just because you do not appreciate my cooking."

"I reckon I deserved that," Newkirk admitted. He had partly been berating himself as being one of the reasons why LeBeau had been so willing to go—all of the insults to LeBeau's cooking, and how Newkirk constantly made an attempt to criticize each and every dish in some way. The truth was, of course, that Newkirk was fully aware of how physically undernourished he would've been had LeBeau not come along. A testament to that was how he had been steadily losing weight since being captured in 1940—until LeBeau arrived, after which he began _gaining_ weight each month.

What Newkirk _wasn't_ aware of was how spiritually undernourished he would've been without LeBeau.

"You know, Louis…" he said, drawing his arm around him again. "I know I complain about the food and all, but, for what it's worth… I'm glad you came back to stay. Not that I want you to be stuck 'ere, of course, but… Well, you know what I mean."

"_Oui_. I know."

"What made you change your mind?"

"It is as I told you—I knew you would not be able to last one mission without me," LeBeau bluffed.

"I know you, Louis. That ain't it."

The Frenchman looked at him, his mind repeating Newkirk's words.

_I know you, Louis._

LeBeau hadn't told anyone of the visions he had been shown. It seemed too unbelievable, he admitted. And yet, every time he had looked at Newkirk since making his decision to stay, the image of the Englishman's alternate persona, dying unloved in his arms, haunted the back of his mind.

"Yes, Peter, you know me," he said, choosing to address him by his English name again. "Let us just say that I truly realized what a blessing that is, and leave it at that for the present."

Someday, he would tell him the whole story, he decided.

Newkirk, of course, was puzzled and moved at the same time, but nodded.

"Well, Louis," he said. "I know you must be sorry that you 'ave to spend more time in this old cage, away from 'ome and from the glory of fighting for your _Belle France_, and all… But you've got the Guv'nor and the others. And you've got me."

LeBeau shut his eyes for a moment, counting his own blessings. Though the visions had not shown him how different _he_ had been due to not knowing Newkirk and the others, he knew that his life would have noticeably lacked something.

"And I am grateful for that, Peter," he said, meaning every word.

The arm around his shoulder was a tangible testimony to the blessing they both shared.

* * *

_Author's note: I know I usually am not the one to kill off characters, but I honestly believe I wouldn't have been able to put the point across with the same amount of power if the alter-character's fates weren't what they were. That last scene with Alter-Newkirk was, admittedly, very tough to write, and I hope it turned out well. __Many thanks to the readers and reviewers of this piece; it was a very inspired one! _


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